He wrote to her about it with the confidence of the new relation it established between them; he looked forward with warm pleasure to the closer intimacy which it would bring.

To Janet, living in this new sweetness of their better understanding, only one thing was lacking--Elfrida made no sign.

If Janet could have known, it was impossible.

In her review Elfrida had done all she could.

She had forced herself to write it before she touched a line of her own work, and now, persistently remote in her attic, she strove every night over the pile of notes which represented the ambition that sent its roots daily deeper into the fibre of her being.